No Smile
by Mind of the Childishly Naive
Summary: No one really knew how different they were, how alone one would be when the other was gone.  There could have been a hole through George's head instead of his heart for all the difference it would have made.  / for Fred and George Weasley


(A/n) **Major 7th book spoiler--character death**. Haven't read the last book? This will wrench your heart in two, so don't blame me for not giving you a fair warning that George!angst is all over this one and there's no comic relief, I wanted to write it and you've had your warning for spoilers and angst, so no flames. JK didn't exactly give us a proper mourning period when she decided to snuff everyone, so here's mine for the one I'll missed the most, and who says Motcn can't write angst, KouTai! I am very proud of myself for reducing my sister to tears with this.

-x-

No Smile

-x-

_**There could have been a hole through George's head rather than his heart for all the difference it would have made.**_

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As twins, it was natural that Fred and George Weasley had shared everything since birth.

From toys to talents, and appearances, and dreams, and hopes for the future, but most importantly, they shared each other's company. One was never seen without the other, and they noticed even when they were very small that it was fun messing with people. They had made a clear point earlier on to get switched around about which one was Fred and who was George when anyone spoke to them. Their own parents even fell for it, every time:

"_I'm not Fred, I'm George. Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you _tell_ I'm George?"_

"_Sorry, George, dear."_

"_Only joking, I am Fred."_

Everyone always had a good laugh at that, no matter how many times it was done. That was what Fred and George did best, actually: Making people laugh, even under the gloomiest circumstances, brightening the mood with their antics and jokes, always light-hearted. They had laughed (albeit grudgingly at first) at the boils caused by their experimenting, even joked heartily, for as briefly as they could, about George's missing ear.

He had 'the whole wide world of ear-related humor' before him, after all―as Fred had so kindly put it. And besides, _"You'll be able to tell us apart, now, Mum."_ They certainly hadn't been able to exclaim how they looked exactly the same after that. But there wasn't any reason for it, now. None at all. It didn't matter if George had been missing both ears, or an arm or leg, for that matter. There was no one to tell him apart from anymore, no one to finish his sentences, no one's sentences he could finish, no one to laugh or joke with him.

Just a heavy, painful emptiness in his heart and nothing to laugh or smile about...

Because that laughter had died and _still _had lingered on Fred's smiling face.

-x-

They had been swapping sweaters at Christmas so that they were Gred and Forge for years.

Mum still made them all sweaters, of course, every year―but it wasn't the same. George couldn't stand to look at his, let alone wear it. Knowing there wasn't a new one exactly like it with an equally yellow _F_ knitted across the front that he could swap it for made him sick. But he smiled and thanked her for it, because he knew what it meant to Mum to be able to give him his sweater every Christmas and knew she was pleased to see him smiling, even though he never could put his heart into it.

It was always torn by the sight of the sweater every time he unwrapped it. He always―still―glanced around at the door, expecting it to come open and expecting the sweater to be pulled out of his hands and another forced over his head and always, _always_,he expected to hear Fred's cheerful call of, "Sleep, well, Forge?" On his first such experience, George had waited patiently for a whole minute, watched the closed door for any sign of movement, listened intently for even the slightest creak outside that would announce his twin's presence.

George sat on his bed, and he waited, and watched, and listened with every longing, hoping part of his heart that Fred would be there, was just trying to scare him and would come barreling in at any moment...

But he wasn't, and he never would, and George knew it.

The realization had struck him with such a fierce blow that George was physically sick, and he hadn't arrived at the Burrow until well after noon with an empty knotted feeling settled in his chest as well as his stomach. He hadn't looked forward to a Christmas, or a Weasley sweater, since. George had come to hate his sweater far more, he was sure, than Ron could have ever hated maroon, but he never let Mum know it.

He wore it obligingly on Christmas when he visited the Burrow, smiled when he hugged and thanked her―as soon as he was gone it came off and met the bottom of his closet and the rest of his sweaters that had congregated there over the years. The only ones not at the bottom of the closet were the ones that Fred had worn. It was probably stupid of him, but George hadn't moved a single thing of Fred's out of the flatt they owned above their shop in Diagon Alley.

His twins room, which was still right across the hall from George's, was exactly as Fred had left it.

Whenever George felt lonely or couldn't sleep, he simply opened the door and lay across the unoccupied bed. Sleep consumed him immediately―his brother's presence so strong, it was like he was really there and that comforted George more than anything else ever could. He was probably the only one who had noticed, but it still smelled like Fred here. In fact, George had noticed that everything of his smelled a lot like Fred, from his own clothes to the couch in the small living room and the shop below, even.

It almost made George laugh again to think of Fred still stinking up the place when he wasn't even here. The thought _did _make him laugh, actually, and George was suddenly sorry that he had. It was like being punched in the stomach with an iron fist. He felt sick again.

His weepy little chuckle was nothing like the jubilant laughter he wanted so badly to hear from Fred.

"That's something we all miss, dear," Mrs. Weasley said gently when he suddenly turned up at the Burrow wanting to talk.

It was well past midnight, but she didn't seem to mind at all and she flicked her wand, making tea for the two of them. George watched her quietly as she bustle about the small kitchen in her nightgown and slippers, his hands fisted under the table around one of Fred's sweaters. He was almost 23 years old, and never in his life had he woken his mother up in the middle of the night.

He'd always had Fred to console him about a nightmare or something, and, though Fred's methods weren't often the kindest, they always worked. One time he'd gone as far as to come over and pushing George out of his bed.

"_Stuff it, will you," said 8-year-old Fred as he climbed back into his bed across the room from George, who was just picking himself off the floor, "You sound like ickle Ronnie, whining about a dream like that."_

_Fred watched him for a moment, took note of the small sniff and the way his twin scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve, then Fred laid down and turned his back on George, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. George started to get back into his own bed when Fred suddenly said, "Bring your own pillow if you're coming over here, then. And you're not allowed to cry, either, so like I said_―_"_

"_Stuff it, yeah, I have," George said quickly, taken aback by the offer, but he snatched up his pillow and ran to Fred, "I have."_

"_I heard you the first time," Fred said, shifting aside so George had room to curl up beside him._

_He didn't roll over, but George knew he was smiling and pressed his face into his pillow, smiling himself. No nightmares plagued his dreams, then―not with Fred so close by. George slept peacefully and kicked Fred out of bed the next morning, laughing as he did so and running down to breakfast._

George sucked in a sharp breath, his knuckles white around Fred's sweater. He ignored the cup set in front of him, his eyes fixed, unseeing on the table top. How long had it been since he'd heard Fred's laugh echoing back at him? Too long... It made his heart hurt something terrible and looked pleadingly at his mother, silently begging her to fix this aching hole in his heart like she had fixed so many things when he and Fred had been kids.

But this was different than a banged up knee, or a scraped cheek, and still more different than stopping the flow of blood from a missing ear. There was no cut to mend, no blood to stem, no wound to fix with any kind of magic. Just a bruised heart missing its better half―the half that gave it a reason for beating.

"I miss him, Mum," George moaned softly, his hands shaking furiously under the table.

It wasn't just Fred's laugh he missed, it was everything! The fact that his twin wasn't here with him anymore was eating away at him―he could hardly even perform magic, anymore! It took a great effort just to do the simplest tasks, now, and even then they weren't done right and he hated himself sometimes because he had become so quiet and distant with everyone. He used to laugh and smile, but without Fred, what was the point?

"George, stop it," Mrs. Weasley said quietly.

He hadn't heard the faint, strained sound of threads coming unstitched and, looking down, he loosened his grip on Fred's sweater with a pang of remorse. George didn't lift his head again, his eyes swimming with tears and blurring his vision. Quickly, he brought a hand up and scrubbed at his face with the cuff of his sleeve, the other clutching tightly to the sweater and rubbing the wool between his fingers.

Mrs. Weasley reached across the table and took George's hand from his eyes, patting it gently between hers.

"If I could make it go away, I would, George," she said, her voice soothing as her son's shoulders shook and he hiccupped quietly, "In an instant, if only I could. But there's nothing that could ever replace Fred in your heart, and he won't come back, George, no matter how sick you make yourself wanting it."

George's breath hitched in his throat, almost chocked him, but he knew she was right. He nodded silently, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. His mother continued patting his hand.

"If you're missing it so badly," she said after a thoughtful moment, and George lifted his head just enough to look at her through his fringe of violently red hair. He saw her expression soften, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Then why don't you start laughing a bit more yourself, George? You know Fred would hate seeing you so sad, so if you can't do it for anything else, at least put your heart into smiling for him."

No one really knew how different they were―not even Mum, apparently. But George knew the difference. Their laughs were not the same, nor were their smiles, and no matter how much heart he tried to put behind his smiles, he would come up short. It wasn't as though he had a lot of heart left in him, without Fred there wasn't even a real reason for it to beat anymore. But he nodded for his Mum's sake and said he would try. He would try, even if he knew there was no point in it.

His heart wasn't in anything, anymore...

Just wrapped up in an old blue sweater from his brother's closet, that he'd worn so long ago and that still smelled of cedar chips and gunpowder.

-x-

--Motcn


End file.
